


Skating By

by seori



Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/M, Forum: Goldenlake, M/M, Series: The Song of the Lioness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25106578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seori/pseuds/seori
Summary: Gwynnen has everything all figured out... skating-wise, that is. Navigating court and its components proves a little trickier. Written for Fief Goldenlake’s Triathlon.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 9





	1. Pond Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Fief Goldenlake’s Triathlon: Fun in the Sun
> 
> The first section was written for With a little help from my friends, and the rest for A change is as good as a rest.

"I thought we agreed you would leave these pranks at the convent."

Gywnnen couldn't help but smile, having given her long-suffering friend the impression that her hellion days were behind her. "Darling Cythera, how can you countenance the behaviour of these ruffians? Her majesty was quite overset. As a queen's lady, I must avenge her."

"As a queen's lady, you are expected to be ornamental; I have heard you complain about that often enough! Nothing in our duties references vengeance or _a plague of frogs_."

"Eight frogs is hardly a plague," Gwynnen hissed, balancing her ribbeting basket as she inspected the door before her. She thought she had the right room but, if she didn't, with any luck the squires would blame one another. "Kindly shut your mouth or you'll get us both caught - I will not defend you to your mama if you get sent home from court in disgrace! It was not my idea for you to accompany me."

That silenced Cythera, but only so far. "You would be short three frogs if I had not."

"The frogs and I are grateful, but if you persist in staying around, do keep watch. Creating a swamp takes time."

* * *

Perhaps Gwynnen had intended to be a 'proper lady' once she had come to court. Her mother's name had smoothed the way for her somewhat, her mother having once been a close confidant of Queen Lianne, until Gwynnen's father had whisked her away to freeze up north.

Entry into the upper social circles had the frustrating sense of restricting her movement; Gywnnen had never felt so observed. Lady Delia's slow drip of poison didn't help. Gwynnen had quite cheerfully let her opinion of Delia be known at the convent, but Delia was established here, had the favour of the court and the Crown Prince into the bargain.

Gwynnen had, privately, earmarked Prince Jonathan for Cythera, and it was most frustrating to be thwarted. Moreover, if Delia did become Jonathan's queen, Gywnnen would likely have to flee the capital. Delia had never forgiven Gwynnen for dyeing Delia's favourite gown orange.

It was hardly Gwynnen's fault that Delia didn't suit that colour.

"If my lady would but let me know what displeases her, I will ensure it is cast out at once." As though she had summoned him, Jonathan appeared before her, eyes twinkling.

Such good humour was utterly wasted on a person so devoid of charm as Delia. Gwynnen could have sighed, but instead entered into the spirit of the conversation. "Your Royal Highness is most kind. I was contemplating what an egregious clash the flooring is with my new slippers."

"We cannot have that," he said solemnly. "I shall have the palace redecorated tomorrow - but I fear the rest of the court will be tiresome and insist on the ball continuing tonight. Might I suggest wearing away the stones with a dance?"

Gwynnen tapped her lips with her fan. Her next dance was promised to Sacherell, but the squires were well-used to waiting on the prince, and she had other reasons for wanting to postpone that particular pleasure. "Ah, the art of attritional warfare. It is awe-inspiring to watch a war hero at work, sir." She worried that she had been too flippant; the Tusaine war had been only a few months ago, after all.

Jonathan rewarded her with a smile. "I am my lady's servant."

He was a consummate dancer (another thing wasted on the heavy-footed Delia), and Gwynnen thought that, if she had not singled him out for Cythera, she might have been in grave danger of falling for him herself.

She was still slightly giddy as he led her off the dance-floor, enough so that she was unaware she was being fed to the lions before it was too late. "Forgive me, but my friends rather thought you might disappear on them without a little... misdirection."

If she had any doubts that Squires Douglass and Sacherell had uncovered the source of their pond-laden rooms, those were soon erased. "My lady dances beautifully," Douglass said with a short bow. "We were ribbeted by your performance."

Gwynnen's mouth twitched as Jonathan laughed and ducked away. Probably wise. It behoved the heir to the throne to have a good survival instinct. "How gracious of you to say so, Squire Douglass. I am surprised you noticed, though I suppose you do have a certain... dogged attention to detail."

Sacherell grinned at her. "I believe I had claimed the next dance, though since my lady appears to be swamped with admirers, I would forgive her for letting my most humble self slip her mind."

"You're too kind," Gwynnen said dryly, since he had apparently arranged her royal distraction himself. The dance was fortunately less complicated than the previous; she had the feeling she would need her wits about her. "I must apologise if I seem out of sorts, we had a peculiarly unsettling afternoon tea."

If she hadn't known he was to blame, she might have been fooled by his politely interested look. "Do tell, if you can bear to relive the catastrophe. Did Lady Violet serve the sugar before the milk?"

"Catastrophe isn't quite the word I'm looking for," remarked Gwynnen, delicate emphasis on the first syllable, and the boy who had unleashed the palace hounds on her sedate afternoon smirked. "Nobody would have dreamt of serving sugar first - as bad as it was, it wasn’t as _ruff_ as all that."

"I dare say that sort of behaviour is reserved for the lower forms of pond life."

Gwynnen feigned her own innocent expression, and averted her eyes from where she was reasonably certain Jonathan and Delia were arguing. "Squire Sacherell, I would never presume to know how you serve your tea."

He chuckled, and bowed to her as the dance concluded. "I honestly thought we'd get away with that one," he confided, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm as he led her to the refreshments.

"Your knight-master took the trouble of apologising for you," Gwynnen explained, since she was curious about how he'd managed to unmask her. It was, as it turned out, exceptionally useful to have an exceptionally beautiful best friend.

Sacherell heaved a sigh, passing her a glass of punch. "Ah, that explains it, Lady Gwynnen we have both fallen victim to our associations."

Gwynnen looked at Cythera, who was even then accompanied by Sir Raoul. Sometimes, it turned out, it was exceptionally annoying to have a best friend.

"There are two ways forward, as I see it. Either we join forces, or we declare ourselves enemies. I should warn you that I already have a sworn enemy, and couldn't promise you my undivided attention if that were your chosen course of action."

To think, she had been bored earlier this evening. He startled a laugh from her, and her glove flew to her mouth. "Squire, you cannot expect to reveal I have a rival for your animosity and not also provide the identity of this knave."

"I divulge my secrets only to my dearest friends," he replied gravely, jolting as Douglass rejoined them. "Lady Gwynnen is deciding her fate."

"Excellent," Douglass said cheerfully. "Duke Gareth has me cleaning the stables tomorrow, and all that muck has to go _somewhere_."

Gwynnen felt displaced all of a sudden, the ease of talking to Sacherell dissipating with Douglass's brittle manner. "As it happens, I also have a sworn enemy," she announced. "Let us join forces so as not to distract our attention from those who truly deserve it."

Douglass bowed over her hand. "We had better go prostrate ourselves before our masters. They seem to have the most terrible trouble fetching simple things and wiping their... mouths without us."

She watched as the two of them departed, clearly thick as thieves, and pressed her lips together. She wouldn't feel sorry for herself, just because Cythera was sought after during these sorts of evenings. Frankly, Gwynnen would never understand how Cythera had managed to be at court two months already without a marriage proposal. There could be two reasons for this - one that all men appeared to be struck dumb in her presence, and two, that they were unaware of her excellent frog-collecting capabilities. More fool them.

However, that left Gwynnen rather without anyone with whom she could speak freely, and she was disinclined to suffer through a suffocatingly polite conversation which would flatten her impression of tonight. Knowing she should stay inside, she waited until it seemed no one was looking her way, and slipped out to the gardens.

This was better, and Gwynnen revelled in the cold rush of air on her bare arms, but she wasn't alone for long.

"Was the company so objectionable you had to seek refuge in the gardens? I apologise for abandoning you to such ingrates; we are trying to teach them better."

Even in the dark, there was no mistaking him. "Your Highness."

Jonathan reached the foot of the stairs, and glanced back to make sure he hadn't been followed. "Call me Jon. My friends do, and I feel as though we're going to be friends."

The Cythera part of her told her to walk straight back up the stairs, but Gwynnen was so tired of being stifled and for once she was going to do something that she wanted to do. "Jon," she repeated, wishing she had more experience with boys in gardens. What was she to do now?

He solved the problem by tucking her hand in his elbow, much like Sacherell had done earlier, only Sacherell hadn't evoked this flutter in her stomach. "Gwynnen - if I may?" At her nod, he began to lead them further away from the palace, through a path where the hedges ran high either side. Her heart was racing now, there was certainly no way to spot them from the ballroom but, oh, if someone were to come across them…

Finally, even in the dark, he'd found a bench. They were, she realised, right by the Queen's favourite rose gardens. How would she sit here with his mother now?

"That's better," he murmured, and his Gift formed a ball in his hand. She felt calmer, watching the flicker of light across his face. Somehow seeing him sapped away some of the tension. "Sometimes these evenings are too crowded. Having to be a prince all night can be exhausting."

It probably wasn't the time to make a joke about poor little rich boys. She tilted her head, catching the lemony scent of honeysuckle on the night air. "And you aren't a prince now?"

She got the sense she was reading the lines designed for her. "Sometimes," he murmured, his voice very low and sending a thrill through her, "sometimes it's nice to be just me."

He took her first kiss on that bench, and her second closer to the palace, and it wasn't until later that she found out that he had done it to get back at Delia.


	2. Ponderous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Fun in the Sun: Making a Splash

There was nothing Gwynnen loved so much as winter. This was her second in Corus, and though she thought she'd miss the lake at Anak's Eyrie, she found the pond more than satisfied her. She had crept down early that January morning to test the surface with Sacherell, and they'd delightedly pronounced it safe.

Sacherell too was a revelation - she hadn't expected to find someone whose mind worked in a similar fashion to her own. It wasn't romantic, but she thought she preferred that, far better to be free to dance with anyone she pleased, to watch the blush rise to Sir Raoul's face, whilst pretending she hadn't meant any such thing.

Eventually, after much cajoling, Sacherell had revealed the identity of his nemesis. At first, Gwynnen hadn't believed him, and Sacherell had laughingly told her that there were more subtle ways to wreak revenge than declaring all out war. Gwynnen supposed that were true, but how much nicer to be open about her dislike for Delia. It made Jonathan snubbing Delia all the sweeter. Gwynnen had no pretensions that she was the cause of Jonathan's waned affections, particularly since the prince barely saw her (or anyone) since his mother had fallen ill in October, but she enjoyed Delia's fall from grace all the same.

"Sir Gareth can't be your nemesis," Gwynnen had objected, not sure if Sacherell had been teasing her or not.

Events had been quiet this winter, with the queen's illness, balls traded in for quiet suppers. Gwynnen liked it this way, though she knew Cythera's mother was waiting for a proposal which still looked someway off. None of the prince's friends were inclined to court with the queen so unwell. Sacherell and Douglass were, however, still inclined to bouts of mischief, and Gwynnen was duly entertained.

Sacherell had been addressing her under the guise of perusing a tome of agricultural poetry. Gwynnen had suspected it was a special kind of torture for her, prone as he was to reciting lines at random. "I did not expect to find you so close-minded," he said with a heavy sigh, at the end of one such verse. "The Naxens and the Wellams have been at war for years. My great-uncle Turomot has bred us all to show the Naxens up at every opportunity. It's, well, it's not working terribly well, given that the queen, the Prime Minister, the training master, and the King's Champion are all Naxens, but Duke Gareth is a rare and splendid man."

"Sir Gareth is your knight-master!"

Sacherell had winked at her. "Keep your enemies close."

* * *

Sir Gareth was no longer Sacherell's knight-master, because as much as Sacherell professed to appease his great-uncle, Sacherell was a slave to Douglass's whims. Douglass had decided that it would amuse him to switch knight-masters, Sacherell had agreed, and everything else more or less fell into place. Geoffrey was most put out by it, since people seemed to assume he was also involved.

(Granted, Geoffrey being out of temper was largely down to Gwynnen's intervention; she'd delighted in giving him messages for Gareth and Raoul within earshot of other court ladies)

Sacherell had advised Gwynnen that the Naxen-Wellam feud raged on, however, and there was as much (or, rather, as little) evidence of that as ever of that on the pond. Sacherell had challenged Gareth to a race, though Douglass and Raoul also seemed to be involved. Gwynnen kept well out of their way, performing tricks in the centre of the pond. Someday, she'd like to race Sacherell herself - she suspected he would be quicker than her, but that had never stopped her trying to best her brothers.

"You are such a show off!"

Gwynnen spun around, bringing herself face to face with Sacherell. "I guess it takes one to know one."

He laughed, cheeks flushed with the cold, and reached for her hand. "I told you, I strive to be the best." He laced their fingers together and twirled her around. "I just proved it to Gary, I can prove it to you too."

"Alan's figured out how to put his skates on," Geoffrey announced, skating past. "Quit flirting, let's go give him a helping hand."

Sacherell was off without a second glance, and Gwynnen made her way over to Gareth and Cythera, the only two not already occupied by Alan's bet. "Do you think he can do it?" she asked, inclining her head towards Jonathan's squire.

Gareth grinned at her, managing to stay steady even as Cythera wobbled beside him, clutching onto his arm for support (undoubtedly by the nefarious Naxen's design; Gwynnen feared that she had unwittingly been drafted on the Wellam side of this alleged conflict). "If there's anything our Alan can't do, I have yet to find it. I am equally confident that Lady Cythera will not last another five minutes before sitting back down on the ice."

"You always know exactly what to say," Cythera noted dryly. "I can't think how to express my gratitude for letting you talk me into this."

Gwynnen was having trouble expressing the extent of her delight in Cythera's rudeness when there was a yell from across the pond.

"Alan's gone under," Gary said, ashen-faced.

"Go," Cythera advised him firmly, releasing him and reaching out to Gwynnen. "We'll get help."

Blessedly, they managed to reach land without falling, and Gwynnen tore off her gloves and tugged her laces loose. "I - we checked the ice, Cyth, I promise, I would never have let you go on it otherwise."

Cythera shrugged, blue eyes worried. "I'll go to Duke Gareth's study, you find Duke Baird."


	3. The Earth Shaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Fief Goldenlake's Triathlon: Wicked in Winter. This entry is for 'Spice Up Your Life'.

Gwynnen had been at court three years when she began to wonder if she would marry.

It wasn't precisely an issue. She was happy enough, and if her father cut her funding like he was threatening, Cythera had offered to let her move into the Elden rooms.

For the moment, however, things were good, mostly. She suspected Gary might be on the verge of proposing to Cythera, and was doing everything in her power to encourage the match. Presently, that left her skulking outside the ballroom, having made a show of departing with Cythera, who had promptly been whisked off by Gary.

"I can't help but feel that you are doing a poor job of chaperoning."

Gwynnen turned, though she already knew who her companion would be. "My charge has retired with a headache," she said archly, daring Jonathan to contradict her.

"Yes, I fear my cousin _is_ quite the headache," he replied with a cocky grin. "Walk with me."

She pursed her lips, disliking his tone. "I fear I may have the beginnings of a headache too. I couldn't possibly risk casting up my accounts all over your royal highness."

Jonathan paused, his arm already held out to her, and then he burst out laughing. "I would deserve nothing less. Let me start again - you may be just the tonic I need. Would you do me the honour of letting me show you the gardens?

Gwynnen didn't point out that she was better acquainted with the gardens than he of late - by day, of course. Heart hammering in her chest, for she also knew his moves, she took his arm. "That's better," she murmured, with a calmness she didn't feel, as he began to lead them into the gardens. "I knew your manners were in there somewhere."

"Forgive me, I had a very trying evening."

She couldn't see his face, but there was a terse note in his voice. She supposed it must be peculiar, seeing his former love courting the mirror image of his other former lover. "I don't think he's interested in her - Lord Thom. I don't think he's interested in anyone."

He stopped, and Gwynnen wondered if she'd displeased him, before she realised he was fumbling with his pouch. "I think Delia's trying to goad me," he answered flatly. "It's a waste of her time." His fingers lit up in blue flames, and Gwynnen recognised the walled garden favoured by his mother. Jonathan swept a creep of vines aside, and smiled at her. "See, you thought I'd have nothing to interest you this evening." He unlocked the door, and held it open for her. "No princesses, no grumpy mages, no sweethearts to enable."

"Just a grumpy crown prince," she answered, but the garden did a thorough job of distracting her. Crystals planted in the walls gave a dim source of light, and as her eyes adjusted, she could make out a wilderness that seemed at odds with Queen Lianne's public gardens.

"No one comes here now," Jonathan said softly, lacing his fingers through hers, "but I remember this being such a haven when I was younger."

This was almost too much - Gwynnen inhaled and reminded herself that men did not bring the girls they were going to marry to secret places. At least Gary was publicly courting Cythera; Jonathan did not pay Gwynnen any particular attention when other people were around. "I am sure Princess Josiane will love it."

He huffed out a laugh, and he was now so close to her that she could feel his breath against her skin. "A haven, Gwynnen, is a place of safety or refuge. It is not where the prey brings its predator."

The fact that Jonathan could ever describe himself as prey was almost enough to make Gwynnen laugh. She knew that he would wait for her cues now, that she could leave this garden untouched, and he would escort her back up to the house.

She turned her head, and kissed him.

He was more practised at this now, less hurried than with their kiss on the bench three years ago, and she let herself enjoy it. She had learned a thing or two herself from the Tyran delegation, and was pleased to note it clearly agreed with Jonathan.

Jonathan broke away, and looked down at her, his breathing unsteady. "Gwynnen, you are-"

She found she couldn't listen to it, didn't want her foolish ears to hear something that might be too agreeable to her foolish heart. "Exhausted," she said brightly. "Perhaps we could sit a while?"

There was a swing seat, large enough for two, though it was a snug fit. Jonathan's thigh was pressed against hers, and Gwynnen worried that the sound of her heart was audible in the silence of the evening.

"You are the loveliest thing," he said, sounding so earnest that she almost couldn't bear it. "Gwynnen, will you look at me?"

When she did, he took her hand in his, and began tugging off her glove. "You are always so ready with a quip; it is quite disconcerting for you to be silent," he confessed, placing a kiss on her bare palm. "Have you nothing to say?"

"People will be begging you for the secret," Gwynnen managed, watching as he pursued the same course with her other glove.

"I think I'll keep this one to myself," Jonathan answered, planting a kiss at the corner of her mouth, and trailing down to her ear. "Do you-?" He paused abruptly, and his questing fingers had found her precautionary charm.

Gwynnen felt all the heat rise to her face. "I haven't," she said haltingly. Her mother had always taught her it was best to be prepared, and so she'd tucked the little charm away, just in case.

He pulled back from her. "I thought-" He brushed a hand over his face. "I thought you and Sacherell…"

If she'd thought she was hot before, her cheeks were positively incandescent now. She loved Sacherell very dearly as a friend, though she had her own suspicions about why the two of them had never found themselves in the palace gardens late at night. "No."

Jonathan's fingers had found their way back to the charm. "I believe a woman's body belongs to herself and the Goddess," he said quietly, and everything beneath his touch was aflame. "But I know that not everyone has my views. I - I can't offer you anything, Gwynnen."

"I know." She placed her hand over his. "It would upset your mother, and Princess Josiane would claw my eyes out."

He half-smiled. "That's my girl; I was wondering where your own claws had gone." He leaned back, letting the swing rock to and fro. "All right. I shouldn't have presumed. I will… leave you to consider things, and you can let me know what you have decided when you are ready."

Gwynnen nodded, though she was almost certain she would make the same decision in the cold light of day. She had been raised with the same beliefs as Jonathan, and a husband who didn't feel the same way was not appealing to her. "Thank you. I do wish you'd mounted a more persuasive argument, though. I can barely remember what it is I'm supposed to consider."

"Well," Jonathan murmured, his hand stealing up to tangle in her hair, "I can't very well have that."

* * *

They fell into a pattern after that; Gwynnen would retire early and Jonathan would sneak away when he was able. She didn't mind knowing nothing would come of it; she intended to treasure the memories of the Crown Prince, tousle-haired, warm-eyed, with sleepy smiles.

Cythera was concerned with Gwynnen's disappearances, but Jonathan had assured Gwynnen that his cousin's intentions towards her friend were good. Gary wanted to make something of himself first, wanted to be somebody worth marrying, and Gwynnen approved of that, as much as she hoped it wouldn't take him too long. Gwynnen therefore had little compunction about pushing her friend to her readily-available distraction.

Through October, his mother caught another chill, and he was by her side more often than not. When he came to Gwynnen, he was weighed down by his worries, and she tried to ease them as best she could.

"You look tired," she said, brushing her hair through his hair.

Jonathan cracked an eye open. "Services all day will do that to a man." He had, truthfully, worn himself out trying to stand in for both parents on All Hallow's Eve - she dreaded to think what Midwinter would bring. "Are you trying to tell me you weren't satisfied?"

Gwynnen shrugged, his playful tone relieving her. "Well, it's understandable, if your mind was elsewhere," she demurred, toying with her pregnancy charm. It felt hot to the touch; perhaps she hadn't noticed him lying on it.

She'd riled him as intended; he made short work of her nightgown, and he was so thorough in his attentions that at first she didn't realise that the earth was shaking until he'd frozen on top of her. "Jon?"

"I - I don't know," he gritted out, rolling off her. "That didn't feel - Mithros, I'm going to kill Trebond. Are you all right?"

She nodded, hand on her charm. She must have been hotter than she realised; the metal was cool now against her skin, leaching some of her warmth. "How do you know it was him?"

"Feels like someone tried to suck my Gift out of me - I can't buy that there's anyone else around with that kind of power." Jonathan yawned. "I'll have a word with him in the morning - I wouldn't trust either of us to manage a profitable conversation right now."

For all his claims to temper, he looked placid enough as he reached for her, folding his arms around her tightly. Gwynnen closed her eyes, knowing from experience that he would only stay for as long as it took her to fall asleep.


	4. Comfort and Joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My final two pieces for Goldenlake's Triathlon: Wicked in Winter! The first part is titled 'Bad Tidings' and is for 'A Chill in the Air', and the second is for 'The Gift that Keeps Giving'. 
> 
> References to period-typical homophobia.

December was nearly upon them when the thing Gwynnen had been dreading was confirmed.

She had plenty of time to muse as the Queen had been in poor health since All Hallow's Eve. Gwynnen found herself alone and, it turned out, much altered.

She sought out a healer in the Lower City to ensure secrecy, and trudged back to the palace on her own. She paused by the pond, wrapping her arms around her stomach, and reflected that there would be no skating for her this winter.

Shivering, she managed to pull herself together long enough to reach her rooms.

* * *

"Gwynnen, either you let me in, or I remove the hinges from your door," Sacherell called through. "The choice is yours."

Gwynnen had no doubt he would follow through. In truth, she had expected something like this, but she hadn't known what else to do. She couldn't have Cythera tainted by association with her; Gary's parents would direct him elsewhere for a wife. She'd been on the brink of sending her maid to fetch Sacherell, but what would he be able to do?

It was some comfort that he'd come without being summoned.

He was amusing himself with unhinged jokes when she pulled open the door. "Thank Mithros," he said, checking the hallway before entering. "I wasn't sure I could actually manage it. You look dreadful."

"Sacherell," she choked out, at a loss for words.

He pulled her into a hug, letting her sob into his tunic. "I know. You're in a mess. Let's get you back into bed, and we'll see what we can do."

Gwynnen should have been embarrassed, having Sacherell in her bedroom, but she felt somewhere beyond that. He pulled his boots off, but otherwise lay on top of her covers, making sure she was tucked securely beneath them, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

Finally, she felt safe enough to admit, in a small voice that hardly seemed to belong to her, "I'm pregnant."

And there it was, out in the world.

"I guessed as much," Sacherell said quietly. "Your maid thinks it's mine. Goddess knows everything would be easier if it were."

"I can't tell you whose it is."

Sacherell squeezed her upper arm. "Did you know, Douglass is positively green with jealousy over you? I wouldn't normally be so frank, but, let's face it, you can hardly be without suspicion, and you have your own pretty weighty secret now."

Gwynnen pulled a face, too worn out to follow the conversation, and unable to care what Douglass thought. They had never been close, despite her efforts, and she'd given up trying. "If he wants to be pregnant and unwed, he's welcome to it."

"That," Sacherell said slowly, untangling himself from her and digging his fingers into his calf muscle instead, "was quite unnecessary. I'll make an allowance for you, but neither Douglass nor I are responsible here."

"Sorry."

Sacherell nodded, and though he didn't resume his previous position, he did place his hand over hers. "Douglass saw Jon leaving your rooms, the night of the earthquake."

"Jon thought it was magical," Gwynnen said absently, before realising what she was admitting to.

"Lord Thom of Trebond thought he'd like to remind us all of his gracious presence," Sacherell confirmed. "I talked to Duke Baird, he seems to think Trebond sapped all local magic for his little experiment. Charms, wards, Gifts, you name it, he took it. Baird had a patient in a magical coma, so you can imagine how impressed he was."

Gwynnen touched her hand to her stomach. "Lovely. Perhaps Trebond will pay for my upkeep when my family turn me out."

Sacherell's fingers tightened round hers. "Darling Gwynnen, we won't let it come to that. Let's talk about your options. I presume you know there are certain herbs available?"

She shook her head, swallowing hard.

"Well, then. You could always tell Jon. He'll probably marry you, but given his mother's state of health, there's every chance you'd be packed off to some remote village. You'd probably own the village, you could be the lady of the goats."

Gwynnen half-smiled. "I'm not sure I fancy life as a lonely goatherd." She didn't say what they were both thinking, that this news may well finish his mother off. Also Princess Josiane might take it as a personal slight and they'd be thrust into conflict with the Copper Isles. When Gwynnen made a mess, she did an extremely good job of it.

"All right. I have one more option for you - me."

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

"That," he drawled, clearly uneasy but affecting otherwise, "is not very flattering. This is my first proposal, you know, I think you could stand to make some allowances."

"What about Douglass?"

"I don't think you'll get him to marry you."

Gwynnen set her chin firmly. Part of her wanted to protest that she'd wanted to marry for love, but she recognised that Sacherell had probably also wanted the same. Nonetheless, she thought she deserved the truth. "Sacherell. What about Douglass?"

He gave her a sad smile. "Well. I couldn't get him to marry me either. We do all right for ourselves at the moment, can't keep squires because we can't have too many eyes around, can't take lodgings together because people will talk. He doesn't care so much about those things, but I… my family isn't like his. Neither of us are independent, eventually I'd have to make a choice anyway." He turned her palm over in his, lacing their fingers together. "Sometimes I think it would be easier if I'd met you first."

"Sacherell, I- I don't want you to resent me."

"I think I could consider myself pretty lucky if I got to marry my second favourite person in the world," Sacherell said frankly. "You wouldn't be Queen, of course."

She gurgled out a laugh, wiping at her eyes. "I wouldn't want to be a queen anyway."

"Oh, I know. All those beautiful clothes, parties in your honour, expensive jewels. It sounds rubbish." He produced a handkerchief, Wellam insignia embroidered in the corner. "Here, this could be yours… for the small price of a husband. Just think about it. My great-uncle Turomot wants me to follow him into the law. I've got no property to speak of, but we could get a nice place in Corus. I think we could be happy together. Most people seem to think we're courting anyway, it wouldn't come as much of a surprise."

Gwynnen closed her eyes, trying to process it all, the prospect of marriage and security compared to being holed up at Anak's Eyrie for the rest of her life. Sacherell pulled her into a hug, and she clung to him gratefully. "Do you think Douglass will…?"

"Douglass is very black and white. I don't expect he will want anything to do with either of us once I tell him - you either get all his love, or none of it."

"It's a lot to ask of you," she said, muffled into his shoulder, because she knew she was teetering on the brink of saying yes.

"Look at it this way," Sacherell advised, pulling back enough so that she could see his face. He was more serious than she’d ever seen him, but there was a tenderness in his eyes that soothed her. "I'd be marrying the girl who thought transforming my room into a swamp was adequate revenge for a minor disturbance during her afternoon tea. We could get away with a quiet temple ceremony, and you wouldn't ever have to dance attendance on Princess Josiane again."

"All right, all right," she said, an enormous fondness swelling up inside her. Now wasn’t the time to point out that eight palace dogs was a considerable disturbance when one factored in delicate crockery and excitable nerves. "Thank you, Sacherell. I'll marry you."

"Excellent," he said, as though she was the one saving him from certain ruin. He pressed a kiss to her temple. "I'll make arrangements. Just so you know, I will be in terrible trouble if my first-born comes out looking like a Naxen, so do have a word with your unborn child."


End file.
